Narcissistic Fairy Tale

I have a secret. I’ve kept it ever since I was eighteen, and I’m forty-eight now. Not even once have I considered sharing it. Nobody would believe me if I did. Hell, sometimes I don’t even believe it, I’ve managed to convince myself that it’s all in my head many a time. But then I’m faced with it again and I can’t deny that it’s real. Implausible, fantastical, but absolutely real.

You’re probably wondering what my secret is, and do you know what? I think that now…yes, I am ready to divulge it now…

It all started the day I came out to my parents. They didn’t like knowing that their only child was something other than what they’d always assumed. Harsh words were exchanged over the breakfast table, some of them crossing a line from shock and ignorance into cruelty. In the end, my father had called my grandmother to see if she had any sage advice on how to ‘turn me back’.

By tea time I was unpacking a holdall in grandma’s spare room, half weeping, half laughing at the way her upper lip curled with distaste every time she called my dad an archaic, homophobic fool. For the rest of the afternoon and into the night she consoled me, filled my belly with stew and apple pie, sniggered when I popped the cap on a lite beer while she knocked back a few bourbons.

Not wanting to be out boozed by an eighty-year-old woman, I’d grabbed myself a tumbler. Eleven o’clock soon rolled by and after helping gran to her room I made my way to mine. I’d always slept in that room when I stayed over but I’d never been fond of the mirror doored wardrobes. I’d always freaked myself out, thinking about things creeping out and dragging me in.

But on this particular night, I was too drunk to care. I staggered past them, naked as the day I was born, and prepared to fall flat on the bed. But something odd had caught my eye and I backed up, giving myself and the room reflected around me the once-over. I could have sworn that I’d seen plain walls instead of floral ones. And I’d been sure that the reflection of me had dark blonde hair. Mine’s always been lighter.

Obviously, I was wrong, cos there was honey haired me with my soft belly and floppy cock, surrounded by chintzy wallpaper and ruffly soft furnishings. But as I fell asleep my attention was still on the mirrors and if I’d been sober, I’d have acknowledged the kaleidoscope that the glass doors became once the lights went out.

Each night after that the doors would give me flashes of different places as I passed by, only to still and become regular mirrors again if I looked right at them. But if I gave them side-eyed glances I was afforded the sight of many inexplicable things.

One afternoon I saw a river, edged with lush vegetation and fed by a crystal blue waterfall. Another time I saw a forest carpeted with bluebells, after that a field with nothing in it but a few standing stones, and later still I saw, probably most surprisingly, a packed nightclub.

I quizzed gran on how she came to own the wardrobes, where they’d come from, if someone had owned them before her, but she said that they’d been in the house when she moved in. They were far too big to be moved so there they stayed.

I hunted that bedroom from top to bottom, looking for projectors in the walls, screens behind the doors, pictures laid beneath the glass. But no devilment was to be found, they were just plain old wardrobes. Except, they weren’t.

It was six weeks later that when my secret came into being. Gran was staying at a lodge with the surviving members of her old biker gang and I had the house to myself. Naturally, I brought a guy home. He was everything I wanted at that point in my life. Crazy hot with ripped abs, a round but firm arse, and a short but thick cock, tanned, toned, and called Tony.

We’d fucked like rabbits pretty much all night long, and Tony being the kind of guy he was, most of it was done on the floor in front of the mirrors. He’d loved watching himself perform and while I did find it hot, it did feel like he was more interested in his own reflection than the body offering itself up beneath him.

It was when he was swinging his hips into me so hard it sent me and the rug creeping across the carpet that I noticed him. Blonde, bright blue-eyed, and standing right at the edge of the mirror. He’d looked disapproving of Tony and, to my mind, a bit jealous, too. I’d halted things, stared at the mirror until Tony started getting angsty, then told myself I’d imagined it.

But he’d appeared a few more times through the night, and not just while there was fucking. I spotted him when Tony left the room for a pee. Then again when Tony fell asleep, and just before he woke up.

After that, I looked for him, but he didn’t show up for another two weeks. The thing that drew him out was masturbation. I’d placed a chair right in front of the mirror, sat wide legged enough for my arsehole to be on show, then tugged away at my cock like my life depended on it.

I got a few flashes of blonde hair here, a blue eye there, then random bits like an arm, a knee, the under curve of a fleshy butt cheek. It wasn’t until my hole puckered and my balls all but disappeared into my body that he fully revealed himself to me. The way he’d looked at me, the hunger and intent in his stare, had thrown me over the edge and I’d sprayed the mirror with come. Copious amounts of it that should have run down the glass to drip off and pool on the floor.

But after the guy vanished I discovered that I had nothing to clean up. Every drop I’d spurted was gone.

The next night I wanked at the mirror again, this time standing right in front of it. I could feel the chill of the glass, I felt dwarfed by the sheer size of the wooden frame. The blonde didn’t waste any time in showing up. He had a smile for me this time. Broad and white, with one chipped tooth right at the front. There’d been a shyness to him when he took his cock in his hand and started to match my stroke. It didn’t take him long to get into it, though. I marvelled at the way his bicep flexed as he shook his wrist, the way his pecs tightened, and the way his abs crunched every time he got too close.

We wanked together for what felt like hours until, with an expression of desperate panic, he pressed his tip against his side of the glass. Lipreading was out because I was useless at it, so he just pleaded with his eyes, willing me to understand.

And I did understand. We’re the same height so my cock was level with his, and the relief on his face when I pressed the tip of mine into his made me ache. I held his gaze as we both frantically jerked our cocks and his fast nod was all the permission I needed. Our orgasms came simultaneously. I didn’t feel mine pouring over my hand, but I did feel his. His come was cold and almost dry feeling. It had a quality of being there but not being real. I didn’t care. I’d found something extraordinary, something unique, and I wasn’t about to question it.

For months and years going forward the guy in the mirror visited me. When Gran died, and I had to move out, the only thing I took with me was the wardrobes. My husband hates them, but they’re the only thing I refuse to budge on. They go, I go.

Of course, he doesn’t know why I’m so adamant that they remain exactly where they are. And though I’m telling you all of this quite freely, it’s not something I’ll ever be able to share with him. He’s caught me tossing off in front of those mirrors so many times he’s concluded that I’m my own biggest fantasy so I’ll just let that be that. There’s no reason to hurt him by revealing that I need, want, adore a reflection more than I do him.

So, when he leaves for work tonight I’ll be straight up the stairs, shedding my clothes and giving the man in the mirror exactly what he needs. What I won’t do is acknowledge the darkened blonde hair I see in my reflection in the hall mirror. I won’t let myself notice the bright shade of blue in my eyes as I shave. No, I won’t even begin to accept that the guy I wank to in the mirror looks exactly like me. And that there is my big secret. I’m a narcissist in denial.

Week #211

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